


Tell Me Something I Don't Already Know

by VivianCavanaugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, M/M, Minor Character(s), The Red-Headed League
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivianCavanaugh/pseuds/VivianCavanaugh
Summary: Life has always felt a bit crowded in Sherlock Holmes's head.





	Tell Me Something I Don't Already Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joannaharley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannaharley/gifts).



Life has always felt a bit crowded in Sherlock Holmes's head.

No matter how big his Mind Palace was getting, it still couldn't encompass every memory, and every strange sentiment – which rarely resurfaced, as he boasted on numerous occasions. This was reason enough to delete information that just didn't fit, and wasn't so important for it to require remembrance. This was exactly why, more often than not, he had been accused of the so-called _missing things, important things and how can you not know that_. Well, excuse him for not caring. At all. About useless things.

 

Ever since he was young, and wanted to be a pirate, he had been showing remarkable intellect, deductive power, a great deal of interest towards any kind of mind game; however, he displayed a tendency to boredom, which still seems to him the most dreadful of tortures. As he grew up, he found it necessary to occupy his otherwise tormented mind with tasks he deemed worthy of doing, thus numerous habits had begun forming.

 

He had always seen a bit more than his father and, later, than his mother, a bit less than his brother, but the difference was more like a step or two on an imaginary stairway. When he went to school, he found it quite peculiar that the other children failed to notice what was right in front of them. It was _obvious_ , so why couldn't they just _see_. This led to frustration, which quickly led to anger, and from there to a hierarchy – he was a couple of steps away from the top, they hadn't even begun climbing.

 

He cared for a few people. He could count them and still have fingers left. Which he would not do anyway, because who counts on their fingers? Are people so backwards they forget the existence of their _very own brain_? When he found that most of his classmates cared for _a lot_ of people, he had already tagged them as idiots, so it hadn't been a surprise. Much. Years later, after a wild night in the library, he found the term _psychopath_ , quickly dismissed it, found the term _sociopath_ just below it, found that it didn't quite fit , found that _high functioning_ was in use, then made a deduction . He is a _high functioning sociopath,_ thank you very much for your misplaced diagnosis, albeit on the same page, literally speaking.

 

His affiliation for mysteries –usually crimes – began with Carl Powers. His _murder_ was immediately ruled as an accident, written about in the papers, and a closed case ever since. It had been like a game, piecing together information from different newspapers, building a story as close to the truth as possible. He was just a kid, yet he knew there was _something_ about Carl's death – _the shoes._ _He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes._ The police wouldn't listen, never listened, he'd tried to tell them over and over again, _made a fuss about it_ , still, nothing. He started to read more about crimes, murders, criminals, killers, _serial_ killers and he updated his hierarchy – between him and ordinary people came a third category: less ordinary people who committed crimes. Since then, he knew with certainty that the police would never catch those above them, would never _solve_ all cases, would never beat the game. _The Game._

 

Later in life, he found that, as the police needed him, and as he didn't want to be the police, he could help them. But to help didn't sound like him. _To_ _be_ _consult_ _ed_ , ah, yes, that felt better. He was being _consult_ _ed_ by the police, he was a detective, though not a private one. If he were a private detective, he would not be consulted. Oh. _Oh. Consulting detective._ _The only one in the world._

 

That certainly lifted his spirits. To be the only one in the world to do something. To be unique, as unique as his mind, as unique as his brother could never see he was.

 

He eagerly began his quest: to find the most interesting police cases and solve them as quickly and meticulously as possible. His second case after Carl Powers went smoothly. His third case more so. His fourth case was already boring him. His fifth case he solved by reading the file. His sixth by reading the papers. His seventh by listening to a short description. It was getting quite predictable. _Boring. Dull. Trite. Humdrum. Mundane. Stodgy._ What seemed like a complicated case for the police seemed _meretricious_ to Sherlock.

 

He turned to drugs. That wasn't the most honourable time of his life. Honestly, he didn't remember much of it, only his brain trashing around his skull, wanting to break free; him feeling like he could solve the whole world in ten minutes, his brother showing up at the hospital or kidnapping him from whatever slum he resided in; his euphoria triumphing over his sickness. He was either completely aware of everything, or completely unaware of anything. His brother _Mycroft_ took him to rehab and the second time Sherlock actually stayed there. Drugs had seemed to him like they could be enough. He was once again proved wrong.

 

He took police cases again, met Lestrade _what's his name I don't care Gary_ _Gavin Graham Geoff Giles_ _whatever it is._ _it._ _doesn't. matter.,_ he met Anderson, he _despised_ Anderson, he met Donovan, she was utterly dull _has an affair with Anderson judging by the male deodorant she's wearing, the fact that she didn't get home last night oh and the state of her knees._ And then there's Molly Hopper _has a crush on him, could be of use_ , _works at the morgue, brilliant._

 

He quit smoking, a habit which he had acquired during his high-school years. He started to use nicotine patches instead. Cases that required his full attention required a number of patches. They were _x-patches problems_.

 

He fought with his brother when the latter told him he wouldn't be able to live with someone and that he was _not_ going to pay his rent if he lived alone in the middle of London. He may have mentioned it when he was at Bart's and Mike Stamford may have overheard him, but he did not _complain,_ or worse _, sulked_ about it _._

 

And that's how he met Dr John Hamish Watson, former captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, has a PHD, _t_ _he police don_ _'t_ _consult amateurs,_ _his_ _haircut, the way_ _he_ _hold_ _s_ _himself_ _says military,_ _his_ _conversation_ Bit different from my day _, trained at Bart_ _'_ _s, so Army doctor, face_ _t_ _anned but no tan above the wrists,_ _he_ _’_ _s_ _been abroad, not sunbathing, limp really bad when_ _he_ _walk_ _s_ _but_ _doesn't_ _ask for a chair when_ _standing_ _, forgotten about it, partly psychosomatic?, original circumstances of the injury were traumatic,_ _w_ _ounded in action,_ _w_ _ounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq, psychosomatic limp,_ _has t_ _herapist, phone expensive e-mail enabled MP3 player, but looking for a flatshare,_ _wouldn't_ _waste money on this,_ _gift,_ s _cratches, many over time, same pocket as keys and coins, a previous owner,_ _engraving_ Harry Watson From Clara _family member his old phone,_ _n_ _ot father, young man gadget,_ _cousin?_ _un_ _likely_ _has_ _extended family brother, Clara, romantic attachment wife, not girlfriend,_ _phone_ _only six months old,_ _m_ _arriage in trouble he left her,_ _gave phone to him,_ _wants to stay in touch, problems with him liked his wife? don_ _'t_ _like his drinkin_ _g_ _?_ _p_ _ower connection scuff marks around the edge of it, hands are shaking, never see a drunk_ _phone_ _without them,_ obviously.

 

_Amazing_

 

_Do you think so_

 

_Of course_

 

_Did I get anything wrong?_

 

 _Harry's_ _short for Harriet._

 

 _Damn, his_ sister. There's always something.

 

They solved this one together. He felt good. Then Dr Watson shot his serial killer. He felt even better.

 

Mycroft kidnapped him, like the _british government_ he is, offered him money, the doctor said no, and Sherlock's life was getting more and more interesting. Who would have thought that he'd grow to have a flatmate, an assistant, a colleague, a friend. He had a friend. He thought he didn't, at first, because _This is my friend, John Watson Friend? Colleague_ and oh, he had jumped to conclusions. He sometimes did that, but just because his thought process was fast and given all data, this was one of the logical conclusion. He had to admit he chose it out of sentiment – which was troubling, to say the least.

 

After reflecting deeply, he decided that what he and John Watson had, felt like a friendship, that is to say, felt like something he'd never had before.

 

He was just starting to see something amiss while fiddling with his violin _he knew how to play beautifully, he just didn't want to_ when he heard _one_ hesitant knock at the door. Client! John wasn't there _home_ so he had to let the man in. He was a stout, red-haired man, probably in his 50 s, _right hand larger than left hand, manual labour, smokes – obviously, right cuff very shiny, left one has smooth patch near elbow, rest upon the desk, done writing recently, fish tattoo above right wrist, Chinese coin, China._

 

 _heavy steps, confident, one foot weake_ _r_ _than other_ _, John._

 

“John, there you are, just in time for this man's story!” John was an excellent listener, even inquiring about those tireless and equally _pointless_ details such as feelings and emotions and the general well-being of the clients, urging them to _go on, don't mind him_.

 

“My name is Jabez Wilson _dull_ , and before I tell you my story I must show you this advertisement

 

**TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE**

**A vacancy opened, which entitles a member of the League to a £360 salary a week. Must be red-headed and over 21.**

 

I got in the mail _dull-ish._ I found the offer to be great and, being myself a red-haired man, I thought why not? and applied. I immediately got the job. The next day, I went to this address, where a man named Duncan Ross _unimportant_ told me the details. I would have had to work four hours a day, five days a week. It suited me, so I agreed. The job was to copy by hand pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica _hmm_. I am a pawnbroker, so my business allows me a couple of hours to spare. I left my apprentice to work in my place. _oh._ He's a nice chap, works below minimum wage, as he insisted, thinking my business is not what it used to be. He's got this passion for photography. He sometimes stays in our cellar for hours developing pictures, it's dark in there, you see. So I've worked at the League for two months. When I come by this morning, the place is deserted. I go back to the pawn shop to find a note from my employee saying he'd found another job and that he's sorry.”

 

_most likely ghost company, dull – wait_

 

“Do you have any idea who sent you the offer?” John, ever the good-doer.

 

“My apprentice brought it to me, said it was in the shop's mail.” _Yes._

 

“We'll take your case, what's the name of your employee?”

 

“Vincent Spaulding is his name, friendly fellow, yes, quite friendly. Thank you so much,Mr Holmes! It isn't often that you find someone of your character, and your work... ”

 

John giggled, tried to mask it with a cough, snorted instead. Sherlock cracked a little smile at him, visibly composed himself and began speaking with such speed that it was a wonder people usually understood him, at least partially.

 

“Yes, yes, goodbye, nice to meet you and all that!” Sherlock almost shut the door in his face.

 

John was looking at him amused, his eyes sparkling with _something,_ the curves of his lips spoke of mischief, his brows were fond, if such emotions and states can be indeed found in people's features. He looked much younger when he smiled.

 

_The case_

 

The case was proving itself to be a three-patch problem. He sat on the couch, his fingertips put together in his usual thinking position. He had almost proven his theory, though he would not hurry. With a bit of luck, he will uncover not only a conspiracy of sorts, but the thing, the something that didn't quite settle between him and John Watson. _John Hamish Watson. J. H. Watson. John H. Watson. John H. W. John John John_

 

After a few seconds he pulled out his phone and texted the client, inquiring about his assistant's ears, whether they were pierced or not. _p_ _ierced,_ _of course._ He's almost never wrong.

 

“John, wake your silly brain up and let's go.”

 

“Where to?”

 

Sherlock had already taken his scarf and coat, climbing down the stairs with visible enthusiasm. John was left to follow with a small sigh. _did he do something wrong? merely saving time._

 

“Angelo's. But first, to the pawn shop!”

 

“Care to explain?”

 

“Not right now. You'll see. Now hurry, criminals don't wait up!”

 

He heard him muttering something along the lines of _they should_. He felt? What was it?

 

They took a taxi, and when they arrived there, Sherlock started to knock impatiently, like someone who wanted to bring down the house. A young man opened the door, _the_ _knees_ _of his pants_ _, worn, stained oh._ _the cellar._ He asked some mundane thing like directions, the boy answered, and they left to eat.

 

_Tobacco store newspaper kiosk the bank vegetarian restaurant the park_

 

“That's it?”

 

“Yes, I've solved it. Now we just have to catch them in the act.”

 

Angelo was in high spirits, as usual, he had _a date tonight, will close early_ , John ordered some pasta and Sherlock settled for bruschetta, full knowing than his insufferable _friend_ would make him eat it all, or at least half of it. He was mean like that.

 

Munching on his food, he turned his eyes to the doctor, watching him with a focus he usually reserved for his mysteries, or when he tried to cheat at Monopoly, or when he wanted to figure out sentiment. He didn't know what purpose this particular look had. It was as though he discovered another John each day, and while he was still an _idiot_ , his stupidity didn't rot Sherlock's head like all those other people did. It was as though he was standing again on that imaginary stairway and he was a couple of steps away from the top, and John has just begun climbing, one step, two steps and Sherlock was climbing down and they met in the middle and climbed up together. _Oh._ _Insufficient data to prove hypothesis. Gathering more._

 

“Something on your mind? You've been unusually quiet.”

 

“I don't speak for days, I told you that at Bart's.”

 

“Yes, but you haven't stopped talking since. Is it about the case?”

 

“No.”

 

John raised both his eyebrows. He was a very expressive man, and half of the time he wanted to ask Mycroft for the CCTV footage just to see John's reactions to certain stimuli. They were quite _charming_ , one could say. Sherlock would agree.

 

“Say, if you had a hypothesis and not enough data to sustain it, what would you do?”

 

“I'd collect more data. Why?”

 

“Remember your answer to my question, please.”

 

And he leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on his _friend's?_ lips. It was more like a brush than a sustained contact, however the effect was _electrifying._ The rational part of him was on a secondary plane right now, that hadn't happened since he wanted to be a pirate. He felt that he could be one, right now. He would be a pirate and John would be a pirate and Mycroft would be one of the good guys and Sherlock would have his ship and Anderson would wash the floors and act as entertainment for the sharks. All of this thinking took place in the span of the whole five _glorious_ seconds of the kiss. He drew back and _looked_ at his _not-friend._

 

John was staring at him with _what he probably thought was an inscrutable expression._ It wasn't. He could discern at least two kinds of shock, one _am I dreaming right now_ blink, the _something_ in his eyes and a tint of red creeping up his ears. It wasn't conclusive, not really, but it was better than revulsion or anything like it.

 

They had finished their meal, so he stood up abruptly and signalled a taxi. The ride back was quiet, and as soon as they got home John retired to his room upstairs. Sherlock let his attention drift back to the case, _not_ back to how their kiss felt, the softness and curves of lips, the feeling of victory and his elevated pulse. He pulled a piece of paper and left John a note.

 

**1 0 pm at the pawn shop, could be dangerous**

 

He texted Lestrade and got his violin. There was an odd thing about his violin, as he didn't remember _per se_ when or where or how he learned to play it. He just _did, helps me think_ and he needed to, tonight. He was in the middle of a third song when he had something akin to an epiphany. All songs were John's favourites, based on his reactions, _slowness in movement, wish to stay in the living for as long as possible, must be the music._ And the thing is, Sherlock _never_ played for anyone, not for his mother, not for his father, not for his brother _especially not for his brother_ , yet he played for _John._ It was quite possible, then, that his desire for the doctor's company was due to _some kind_ of adoration, a feeling which he would normally despise, but found that he did not, strangely. Helped him _feel._

 

_oh_

 

_Oh_

 

He almost threw his instrument in his haste of getting to John's bedroom door. He looked at it for a moment and found himself memorising everything about it. He knocked. His _almost-something else_ opened the door _quick_ _ly_ _, not fell asleep_. Sherlock hesitated for a millisecond, then said.

 

“I think I have enough data to establish a conclusion.”

 

John smiled like he had no idea what Sherlock might say.

 

“And what is that?”

 

_he doesn't know hasn't figured it out can't see it a mistake_

 

“I – I feel for you. Something. I feel something for you. I think it might be what _you_ 'd call love. I abhor that word. Currently. I'll change my mind someday, because that seems to be the case with you. Until then, I – _adore_ you. I hope it is enough.”

 

_blinding albeit tired smile, crinkly eyes, illuminated dark-blonde hair, slightly tanned skin, smart nose, defined-yet-not-so-much cheekbones, more like polar opposites_

 

_something in his gaze_

 

_love?_

 

“'Course it is, you silly man. It's always been.”

 

And he leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on his _something's_ lips. It was more like a sustained contact than a brush, however the effect was _electrifying. Galvani_ _c_ _._

He felt every bit of his mouth, his breath, his oxygen; how languid he moved, the passionate curves of their lips intertwining, sending actual _emotion_ coursing through Sherlock's mind, and hot blood through his body. He felt John's hand on his hip, a sensuous weight, he felt his other hand in his curls, tangling and untangling them with heat.

He placed his fingers on his nape, feeling the little bumps _vertebrae,_ then opened his eyes slowly. He could feel his eyelashes on his cheek. He could count his freckles and tiny moles _beauty marks_ and he could map out everything and nothing about John.

 

_maybe love._

 

He woke up with a sigh, looking around. John was next to him, smiling mischievously.

 

“Is this tonight? 10 pm?”

 

“Yes.” _a husky reply_

 

“Alright. You'll tell me how you did it?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Later that night, John Clay, notorious murderer, thief, smasher and forger, young, but at the head of his profession, was caught trying to rob the Bank of its new gold deposit, through a tunnel he had been digging for two months. The tunnel began from the cellar of a pawn shop, namely the one owned by one Jabez Wilson. He states that the man had come to him under the identity of Vincent Spaulding, which proved to be true. The key to this mystery wasn't the suspicious job offer, nor the placement of the bank, nor the assistant's knees and his passion for photography, all of which indicate the possibility of a grand robbery. The key to this mystery is a certain John Watson, who has proved himself such a worthy person to think about, that his name accidentally solved a case.

 

“He used the cellar to dig the tunnel, don't you see? He needed the old man gone for a couple of hours and he knew the shop was in a tight spot. He came to the store because it was the only house near the bank that still had a cellar! His idea of a job came to him from Wilson's hair. It's _quite not-dull_ , I appreciate cleverness when I see it. Why are you smiling?”

 

“Oh, no reason. How did you know who he was, though?”

 

_definitely love._

 

“Just a hunch.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> my first Sherlock fanfiction, I hope they're not too ooc  
> after a story by Arthur Conan Doyle  
> title taken from "Electricity" by Arctic Monkeys  
> it is the longest fanfiction I've written so far  
> as always, notify me if you see mistakes of any kind  
> Your opinion matters to me!


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